With Steadfast Courage
by Rose and Thorn
Summary: There is always one enemy that even the strongest can not defeat. Peter knows and accepts this. The High King's final moments.


**AN: **Um. Really unsure about this one. ::nervous chuckle:: It went in a different direction then I wanted it to. Reviews are appreciated, because, really, I don't know if I did the subject justice.

This is dedicated to **Violet Fire Krazed. **I hope that I'm not too mean to Peter in this one, Violet. :)

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

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Peter loves his family.

Isn't that obvious?

He loves them and he would die for them in an instant if it would keep them safe. If he had the opportunity. If he had the _choice_. But, in this instance, he has no choice. There is no loophole. Nothing to gain. Everything is already slipping away.

He opens hazy blue eyes and tries to take in his surroundings. He can't feel the pain in his side anymore, only a dull pressure. He turns his head in that direction, and takes note of the heavy iron bar pinning him to the ground. If he had the strength, he would worry about the fact that he can't feel his legs. Lowering his eyes, he realises that he can _just_ see the top of his shoe. His red shoe.

Red shoe?

_Red _shoe!

And then he panics.

_"Calm down,' Peter_, he tells himself, gallantly resisting the urge to relieve himself of the contents of his stomach, _"it's your own blood, you fool. Edmund is safe. Lucy is safe. They're fine. Concentrate. Remember what happened after Edmund --"_

Pushed you.

_Oh, Aslan. No._

He struggles to sit up, panic rising as the bar retains its hold. He has to find them. He has to make sure they're safe. He keeps his gaze resolutely fixed upon the age-worn station's sign shining dully above his head. He will _not_ look at his shoe again, even though he _knows_ that it is his own blood.

_"It can't be Edmund's blood. That's ridiculous."_

His movements are sluggish and weak. He slowly realises that unless he gets help, he will never be able to move that bar. He realises that his own solo efforts are futile. He lies back slowly, gritting his teeth as the wound in his side throbs painfully, and looks once more upon the sign.

A few minutes pass, and he finally turns away from the sign. It's dull glow is making his eyes ache painfully. He shuts his eyes and turns his head to the side. Much better. He wonders where the blazes Edmund and Lucy are. Are they hurt, perhaps? He grits his teeth again, pushing that thought aside.

_"No, they're fine."_

Three more long minutes pass, and he opens his eyes. A strangled, hoarse gasp is pressed through his teeth and he promptly shuts them again.

_"Oh, please Aslan. Let this be a hallucination." _

Blue eyes are opened once more.

A motionless, bloody form is lying some feet from his side. Half his torso is covered in cuts, bruises and burns. His dark mop of hair is clotted with blood, and the hand facing him is mangled beyond recognition. A familiar figure, a familiar mop of hair -- that is all he recognises.

How did he not see him before?

"Ed..." when had his voice become so scratchy? "Edmund?"

The form stiffens and then slowly rolls over, revealing a beloved face, marred by countless injuries. He sees a pair of dark eyes open a slit, before closing in a grimace.

"Peter...." Edmund croaks.

He sees Edmund open his eyes once more and wince in pain. He sees his little brother -- his baby brother -- try to give that cheeky smile. It comes out half-hearted, but the intention is there. The familiar gesture makes his heart ache all the more.

_"Where did I fail them. How could I not protect them?"_

"Not your fault," says Edmund, with a wry smile. "You couldn't have stopped it."

It doesn't really surprise him that his little brother is still capable of reading his thoughts.

With a snort, Peter closes his eyes again and reaches over to grasp his brother's mangled hand in a gentle grip.

"It's never been your fault, Peter. If we die, we die. Simple."

Edmund's philosophy sounds right, to Peter's muddled brain; and he's so tired. So very tired.

Is it just his imagination, or is the darkness becoming more pronounced? The shadows passing across his eyes must be just a trick of the light, of course. His head aches and all his limbs seem heavy now.

"I think that this is our final battle, Edmund," he murmurs, not too coherently. He turns blue eyes in Edmund's direction and is rewarded with a gentle smile.

"Yes," Edmund whispers in return. "Our final battle. Our _last_ battle. Do you think we won the war?"

It has become almost a light conversation, now. Neither boy is willing to give in to the darkness. Neither is quite ready to fall into unconsciousness. They are warriors, after all, and kings. They will fight until the end. They are not yet ready to succumb to Death.

"The war is not ours to win, Edmund," Peter replies, in an almost whimsical tone. "Others must pick up where we left off. It is a constant battle between light and dark, right and wrong... life and death."

"It will be a long battle. And a longer war."

Peter smiles. "And yet, in the end, it will be worth it. We _will_ win." He says it with all the conviction he feels.

"I know," is the soft reply.

A cold wind blows over the station, and Peter suddenly notices the things he previously chose to ignore. Sounds of pain and anguish. He nostrils are suddenly filled with smoke, and ash and (most horrible of all) the smell of charred flesh burning steadily. He looks towards Edmund, taking note of his own brother's grievous burns, and feels his own eyes burn with unshed tears. If only he could do something to ease his pain.

Edmund, on the other hand, has closed his eyes. His breathing has slowed -- so has his pulse.

"You alright, Ed," the older whispers, not daring to squeeze the hand he so gently cradles.

A tear falls from the younger's closed eyes, and he smiles wistfully. "You're always so noble, Peter," he says, his voice kept at a moderate level. "You're always so selfless. Even now, when you're so close to --"

He stops himself there, and grits his teeth.

Peter knows how that sentence ends. He knows that death is inevitable. He feels no fear, only a strong elation.

"So close to dying," he finishes quietly, hearing the sound of sirens in the background. He wonders, for a brief moment, whether they will arrive in time to save him and Ed. His mind tells him: "Yes! Hold on just a little longer." but his heart, which has never steered him wrong before, whispers gently: "You will be with Aslan very soon."

Yes, he is hovering precariously upon the brink.

"Peter," says Edmund, successfully drawing him from his reverie, "You're... always so... magnificent. Your name was chosen well. Peter. Rock. Our Rock. I'm glad that... Susan... and Lucy and I had such a steadfast nature to anchor ourselves to..."

His voice is slowing. It has lost its coherency. His eyelids flutter shut and his weak grasp on Peter's hand is loosened.

"I'm... sorry," he whispers, "say good-bye to Lucy for me."

"I will, Ed..."

Peter doesn't even realise that he himself is slipping into unconsciousness. In and out. Glow and Shadow. He gives Edmund one last smile before letting death claim him.

But he is not afraid.

Why?

Because once a King of Narnia, always a King of Narnia; and, as a king, he has a duty to face any enemy with steadfast courage. Any enemy. Even Death.

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**AN:** I'm playing around with canon a little here, as in the book they were in Narnia immediately. I hope that this slight twisting of fact is still palatable.


End file.
